


A Blast from the Past

by these_dreams_go_on



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Modern Setting - Freeform, Bellamy can't catch a break, Bellarke, F/M, Not a surprise kid fic, no accidental pregnancy, until he does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:07:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22708951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/these_dreams_go_on/pseuds/these_dreams_go_on
Summary: When one of Bellamy Blake's ex-girlfriends comes back into his life, she brings along a little something that shocks him and ends up bringing he and Clarke closer together.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 11
Kudos: 176





	A Blast from the Past

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where I got this idea from but Happy Valentine's Day.

Text Message  
  


_Bellamy: I need you to grab Octavia’s axe and bring it to my place and tell nobody._

_Lincoln: …_

_Lincoln: Yeah, that’s not happening._

_Bellamy Blake: Do you have any heavy-duty garbage bags?_

_Lincoln: Seriously?_

_Lincoln: How are we not over this already?_

_Lincoln: Octavia is having my kid Bellamy, I’m not going anywhere._

_Lincoln: And even if you had an axe, I could still take you in a fight._

_Bellamy: I’m not trying to murder you Lincoln._

_Bellamy: Especially not with a weapon covered in my sister’s fingerprints_

_Lincoln: Right, you’re just asking me to bring an axe and garbage bags over to your apartment for totally innocent reasons._

_Bellamy: You wouldn’t believe me if I told you_

_Lincoln: Try me._

_Bellamy has sent you a photo._

_Lincoln: …_

_Lincoln: I’ll be there in one hour._

* * *

Since she’d fallen pregnant, Octavia had developed a new appreciation for her mother’s sewing skills.

According to the websites- and the one book her brother had insisted she read- she was nesting.

Or, she just didn’t want to spend half-a-grand, plus shipping, getting a quilt custom made when she could do the damn thing herself using the skills her mother had insisted she teach her.

Granted, she’s close to swearing right now, but she’s in the zone, which is why she doesn’t immediately register that her partner is calling her name.

  
“Hey babe,” Lincoln said, finally catching her attention and she looks up to find him leaning against the door to the future nursery, “Do you have an axe I can borrow?”

“You mean Andy?” she asks, glancing down at the gold thread in her fingers,

“He’s in the linen cupboard.”

  
Lincoln taps gently on the doorframe and she hears him moving through the house to the linen cupboard which was mostly storage because nobody needed that much linen.

  
“Why do you keep your anthropomorphised axe in the linen cupboard?” he questions, and the truth runs through her mind.

  
Because she watches too many horror movies alone to not have a weapon on hand in case a serial killer comes for her.

She’s not going to admit this though, so she answers his question with another question.

  
“Why are you borrowing my axe?”

Complete silence.

“I’ll be out for a bit.” Lincoln calls and she returns to her sewing with a grin.

* * *

  
Bellamy Blake had been enjoying a quiet Saturday morning.

He’d lain about in bed for an hour, reading a book, showered and made a big pot of coffee.

He’d been about to start laundry when there’d been a knock on the door.

And this was the last time he would open the door without checking the pigeon hole.

He wasn’t sure who he had been expecting, but in order of surprises, finding Roma Braggs on his doorstep was right up there with Alexander Hamilton, God and Cleopatra.

Two of those would have been more welcome than Roma.

She wasn’t alone either.

  
“Hi Bellamy,” she beamed beatifically, “Can I come in?”

  
Could she? Yes.

Should she? No.

Gone were the tight black jeans and ripped tops, now she was dressed in pastels that at first glance looked clean and modest, and at second glance suggested a Stepford wife.

The man who was parked on the street was watching them intently and he had the same dead eyes that formed Bellamy’s decision to usher Roma into the safety of his home.

That being said, he does keep her away from the kitchen, remembering her tendencies to throw things when she got angry.

  
He’d met Roma when he was a freshman at college, she was a guitarist in a local band and the two of them had definitely had some fun times, only Bellamy had grown tired of waking up mid-afternoon with no memories and an extra stranger in the bed. He’d broken up with her and she hadn’t taken it well.

She hadn’t taken it well to the point where Campus Security had asked him to file a restraining order and his friends had refused to let him live alone.

Now, she was sitting at his four-seater dining table, her hands clasped in front of her and he knows he should be offering her coffee, tea or something but he doesn’t know what to say.

Thankfully, she takes the lead.

  
“I know it’s been awhile,” she begins, “And I know things didn’t end well between us, and I accept responsibility for that. I went to a bad place when you left me.”

And she’d left enough evidence behind that Bellamy could have sent her to a worse place.

She clears her throat and he picks up on the social cues,

  
“Thank-you,” he murmurs awkwardly, “I accept your apology.”

  
Her smile widens and he realises that she’s planned out this entire conversation, possibly rehearsed it, which meant…she was twelve-stepping some sort of program, righting past wrongs or whatnot.

His theory is confirmed a minute later when she pulls out a silver crucifix, holding the small necklace up proudly.

  
“At my rock bottom, I found the love of Jesus.” She declares and a part of his soul groans internally while significant parts of his brain shut off.

“That’s great for you.” he manages, hoping his tone makes it very evident that he won’t be accepting any Judeo-Christian deity into his heart or his house today.

“I need to make amends to a wrong I’ve done you,” she explains, standing up and moving to the door and he’s thinking she’s going to invite her man friend in, which he’s not okay with, when she pulls it open and he hears something being pulled into his house.

  
Admittedly, he could have handled the situation better.

  
There could have been less shouting, less swearing and less armchair diagnosing of her various psychosis.

He definitely should not have used physical force.

Which was why he’d found himself standing in his kitchen, panting heavily and staring at his phone, wondering who the hell out of his ragtag bunch of friends he could call for help.

In the end, he’d decided that as his future-brother-in-law, Lincoln was stuck with the task.

* * *

  
For all that he’d impregnated Bellamy’s sister unplanned and out-of-wedlock, Lincoln was a decent enough man when it came to keeping his word, so he shows up one hour later, with an axe and garbage bags.

  
“Okay,” he exhales as he makes his way to the living room, putting the axe on the coffee table with enough care so that the head wouldn’t scratch the glass.

“I am going to need you to explain this at least once.”

  
Bellamy rubs his temples where he can feel the stress migraine forming.

  
“So, I had this ex-girlfriend who turned up today after not having spoken to me for four years and…”

  
He waves his hand, encompassing the living room but Lincoln only shakes his head,

  
“You do not go from random visit from an ex to this…try again.”

  
Bellamy’s still trying to process it himself and decides that maybe talking about the situation would in fact help.

He makes a note to take advantage of the free counselling services at the university.

  
“She said that I was the best she’d ever had and couldn’t bare to lose me, so she found a way to keep me with her forever.”

“And then she found Jesus.” He added, pre-empting Lincoln’s question.

“Poor guy,” Lincoln muttered, walking an almost perfect circle around the body, “I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.”

“Horrified,” Bellamy suggests, “Deeply horrified.”

“The resemblance is striking though.” Lincoln notes, leaning in close to the sex doll.

  
The Bellamy Blake sex doll.

  
It’s a younger version of Bellamy, one with shorter hair and pre-beard, less muscled but absolutely a model of the traumatised man beside him who was tragically sober for this situation.

At least it was clothed.

  
He gestures to them, “Were these yours?”

  
Bellamy hadn’t really thought about it, because if he had, he would have recognised the t-shirt, jeans and shoes as items he’d thought he’d somehow lost in the laundry, long after he’d broken up with Roma. But the day’s already gone to Hell, no reason to take an in-depth tour of Dante’s circles while they were there.

  
“Should I?” Lincoln trails off as he steps back and grabs the axe, “I’m just gonna go for it.”

“Great,” Bellamy deadpanned, “I’m just gonna pretend like you aren’t excited by the thought of dismembering me with an axe.”

  
Lincoln is by no means a weak man, but the axe hits the shoulder of the doll and jars his muscles, causing him to release it on instinct where it remains, lodged in the shoulder.

  
“I don’t know anything about sex dolls…” he murmurs, “But…are they meant to be this durable?”

Bellamy shuffles forward and grabs the handle, giving an experimental tug and then jerking his head for Lincoln to help him.

When their combined strength wasn’t able to shift the axe at all, his stomach dropped and he groaned.

  
“I’ll call Raven.”

* * *

  
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Raven laughs as she steps into his living room, with half the state coming in behind her. “Jesus, Bellamy…what even is your life?”

  
Bellamy runs a frustrated hand through his hair and scans his eyes over the uninvited guests, noting one of them to be a complete stranger.

  
“Hi, who are you?” he demands, having lost his ability to be polite around about the same time his replica had entered his home.

“Zeke Shaw,” the man says, introducing himself with a wave, “When you told Raven about the axe being stuck, she thought it might not be regular available on the market metals in the doll.”

  
Murphy snickers as he steps up close to the doll, getting a good look into its lifeless eyes.

  
“She brought me because my former career in a sex shop means I know more about sex dolls than the average guy,” he comments,

“And I can tell you right now, this is a top of the line model…I’ve never seen one this advanced in person.”

  
Bellamy takes a moment to message Harper, who is probably being kept abreast via someone live tweeting this saga, to ask her for the strongest exfoliation scrub that she and Monty could make.

He wanted to shed _layers_ of skin in the shower tonight.

  
“I don’t care how advanced it is or whether it abides by Asimov’s damn laws…can you tear it into pieces and scrap the damn thing?”

“Yes.” Raven snorts,

“No.” Zeke says at the same time.

  
Bellamy only likes one of those answers.

  
“This looks alarmingly close to titanium alloy,” he explains, tapping around the shoulder bone where the axe is embedded,

“And I’m not sure about what they used to make the skin…”

“If it’s not thermoplastic elastomer, I’d say it’s either silicone or hell, maybe even the elastic gel if she paid for an upgrade,” Murphy pauses to take a sip of his coffee, either enjoying the attention or bracing himself to run in case Bellamy snaps,

“The quality of this model, I wouldn’t be surprised if it had heating capabilities…where’s the remote?”

  
Bellamy hadn’t noticed anything beyond the life-sized sex doll that Roma’s pastel twin had carried from the car into the house. So, he leaves Murphy to look about and turns to Raven and intruder number one who are checking their phones.

  
“We can’t just shove this stuff into a dumpster,” Raven explains, “Once above a certain grade, metals have to be disposed of through a different method, there’s paperwork, we have to find a site that can handle the stuff.”

  
Suddenly Roma’s reappearance in his life seemed a lot less about forgiveness and more about saving money.

  
“Can we do it today?” he asks, slightly desperately, “I don’t want to keep this thing in my house.”

“And you’re not taking it to yours,” he interjects, before Lincoln has even finished opening his mouth, “Thanks for the offer but if my sister found it, she’d laugh so hard she’d probably harm the baby.”

“I could call some people?” Murphy offered, “Found out how they disposed of their sex dolls?”

  
Bellamy is about to take him up on that when he’s interrupted by the sound of a door opening.

  
Clarke Griffin emerges from her bedroom, her hair half-falling out of her plait, wrapped up in a dressing gown that used to be his, looking deliciously rumpled as she shuffles towards the kitchen, headed straight for the coffee pot.

They watch her as she pours herself a large mug, takes a sip and returns to her room, with nothing more than a side glance at the insanity that was their living room.

  
“Has…she been asleep this whole time?” Lincoln asks and Bellamy waves his hand,

“She’s always wrecked before her morning coffee,” he explains, “She won’t remember any of this until later.”

  
Which was merciful because Murphy had just found the remote that activated the sex doll, specifically the vibrating genitalia.

* * *

  
Bellamy proceeded to kick them all out after that, barring them from his house and his life until they came up with a solution to his problem.

Between himself, Lincoln and Murphy, they’d managed to wriggle the axe from the shoulder bone, which they’d only done because Bellamy knew how much his sister liked that tool and he sure as hell didn’t want her to come looking for it later.

He’d left his sex doll standing in the living room while he’d face planted on his bed, praying for this to have been a very bad dream.

His prayers went unanswered and thirty minutes later, he heard Clarke’s bedroom door fling open and her bare feet pad rapidly through their house, stopping in the living area and there’s a long stretch of silence before he hears her moving again.

She bursts into his room, and walks right up to his bed, grabbing his shoulders and rolling him over onto his back. He reluctantly allows her to move him with only a small groan of protest.

  
“I have questions.” she states, and he runs a hand over his face,

“I have a bad ex-girlfriend.” He answers and she hums, her lips twitching as she curls up on the bed next to him.

“Do you have a solution?” she asks, and he shrugs, “Raven is working on it.”

  
Clarke gives a small nod, resting her head on his pillow and releasing a deep sigh as she closed her eyes.

Clarke Griffin’s weekdays were spent working admin at a gallery and her weeknights sketching and painting, so her Saturday’s consisted of sleeping in until her body demanded caffeine, lazing about on a chaise lounge in her bedroom and then spending the rest of the day either napping on the couch or dozing on a picnic blanket in their backyard.

Bellamy’s Saturday’s consisted of not giving into the urge to tell his best friend that he was in love with her.

Clarke didn’t truly wake up until Sunday mornings, so Bellamy isn’t entirely surprised when he gets up to find the doll now sitting on the couch, wearing different clothes and with a massive encyclopedia sitting on its lap.

  
“The old clothes smelt musty,” she explains, sitting cross legged on a dining chair as she sketches.

“I went through one of your goodwill bags.”

  
There’s a lot to unpack there, so Bellamy starts with the easiest issue.

  
“We don’t own that book,” he points out.

“After dressing Bottamy, I took the rest of your stuff to goodwill and found the encyclopedia there, I figured we could take it back once we were done or you could use it for your research on Euro-centric recordings of history.”

  
She’d managed all of this before ten am.

Which led to the second and more complicated issue.

  
“So…you saw me naked.” he prompts, trying to come off as casual but failing when his voice catches in his throat,

  
Clarke’s hand stills, the pencil frozen in mid-stroke on the paper,

  
“I saw the robot naked,” she argues, “Not you.”

He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, “It’s uh…it’s made to scale.” He says, coughing and turns to the kitchen, sticking his head in the fridge in an attempt to cool his burning cheeks.

  
Before he’d moved in with Clarke, he’d lived with Miller and Raven and the three of them had seen each other in various states of undress, partially due to the standard walking around in a towel, short pjs in summer and just being comfortable to the point where they changed with their doors open and didn’t care if someone got an eyeful.

But even though they were both gorgeous human beings, Bellamy wasn’t hopelessly in love with them like he was with Clarke.

He needs a reason to have stuck his head in the fridge, so he rummages around in there, moving the egg carton across a shelf three times before grabbing the juice.

Clarke has remained silent this entire time, and it’s not until he puts the glass down on the counter that she starts and clears her throat,

  
“Was your ex-girlfriend creative?” she asks, and he wonders what that has to do with anything.

“Musician.”

“She’d have a good memory for details then.” She declares, returning to her sketching and Bellamy resists the urge to follow up.

  
He’s pretty sure ‘What do you think of my dick replica?’ isn’t a question for your best friend.

* * *

  
The doll, or Bottamy as Clarke christened it, remained on their couch for the next week and by unspoken agreement, they didn’t have people over to the house.

In a moment where they remembered the likelihood of a robot uprising, they’d moved the remote control to the other end of the house and added a second weight to the robot’s lap so that he couldn’t stand up even if he wanted to.

Bellamy still feels guilty as he packs his suitcase for the week-long conference, he had to attend for his post-grad course.

  
“Remember,” he shouts as he folds his shirt, “Billy Blow-torch and Charlie Chainsaw are on the bookshelf.”

“It’s weird that your sister has named all her tools.” Clarke comments from the couch, where she and the robot were watching an art documentary.

“She didn’t have many toys growing up.” He justifies before zipping closed the suitcase and moving to standing glaring down at the lifeless bane of his existence.

“If it shows any signs of sentience, I want you to call Raven immediately,” he declares, crossing his arms.

“I don’t care if we get fined, just get it out to the backyard, pour on the accelerant and burn it down.”

Clarke is looking at him strangely, as if she doesn’t recognise him before blinking and rolling her eyes fondly, “I am not setting fire to your replicant.”

“And I’m not coming home to find you murdered and my sex doll drafting the washing machine into revolution,” He states, “I’d have cut the batteries out myself if Murphy hadn’t warned me about risks of electrocution.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assures him, following him to the door and giving him a long goodbye hug, the kind where he could close his eyes, bury his face in her hair and hold her tight against him.

“Drive safe.” She offers as farewell as he takes her car keys.

“Stay safe.” He counters.

* * *

  
The conference was two states over at NYU, and funded by Ark U, which meant he essentially got a free hotel room with an ensuite bathroom, free internet and a building filled with people there to discuss history.

It was pretty close to his dream vacation.

He also had the room to himself, which allowed him some freedoms he didn’t have living with a roommate.

Namely, he could jerk off in the bathroom without worrying about whether he was hogging the necessary space, or whether he would be interrupted. And he could fantasize about the woman he loved without having to avoid eye contact with her later.

He plays through a scenario in his mind, Clarke on her bed, wearing a short black silk nightie he knew she owned because he’d found it in the laundry one day, and nothing else, propped up on her elbows waiting for him.

He’s finishes just as he imagines her third orgasm and is washing his hands when he hears his phone buzz.

He unlocks it to find that Clarke has sent him a photo of herself sitting on the couch, leaning into the doll’s side with a blanket over her knees.

#typicalmondaynight.

She wasn’t wrong, except that if the real Bellamy was there, he would have an arm wrapped around her shoulders.

  
Text Message  
  
_Bellamy: I’m gonna talk to Raven about scrapping that doll as soon as possible._

_Clarke: Bottamy is starting to grow on me, he likes my watchlist more than yours._

_Bellamy: He has the power of speech?!_

_Clarke: Does he?_

It’s half an hour later when Clarke messages him again.

  
Text Message:

_Clarke: I messaged Murphy who said ‘Yeah, he would have set phrases I disabled them though because I figured Bellamy was already freaked out enough’_

_Clarke: I thanked him for you._

Whether Clarke’s creative imagination failed her, or the sex doll freaked her out too much, Bellamy didn’t receive any further photos from her. Which enabled him to spend the week in New York city pretending he didn’t have a life-size sex doll replicant of himself back home.

Except the universe hates him because the news reports that there’s a massive stormfront heading down the East Coast which would mean that he either had to stick around New York City for an extra three days on his own dime or head back early.

Even if the astronomical costs of trying to find a hotel room during Summer time in the city during a storm didn’t hurt his brain, he was driving Clarke’s car and didn’t want to risk anything happening to it. Of course, Clarke lived in a world where everything she owned was insured, from her health down to her prescription glasses, so she wasn’t worried if her car was written off, but Bellamy liked taking care of her things.

He’s halfway home before realising that he forgot to tell Clarke and he would pull over to message her, but he can see the rapidly approaching stormfront in his rear-view mirror and already the sky is front of him is grey, with harsh winds buffeting at the car.

He arrives home to lightning cracking across a purple sky, fat drops of wind-carried rain smacking his skin and he leaves his suitcase in the car in favour of running inside before he has to swim to his front door.

It’s barely ten pm, but already the house is shut up for the night and Bellamy hears the gentle whir of the standing fan coming from Clarke’s room, with light filtering from under the door. He’s about to knock on the door to announce his presence when something else catches his eye.

His sex doll is no longer sitting on the couch.

It’s now sitting on a dining chair with its hands behind its back.

Completely naked.

And…was that duct tape?

His mind goes eerily blank while he tries to process what looks like an incriminating scene.

  
Had Clarke _fucked_ his sex doll?

And how did he feel about that?

Hurt? Betrayed? Violated? Aroused?

He needed to speak to her, now.

  
He barely knocks before walking into her room and finds her sprawled across her bed, her duvet half covering her body, leaving one bare foot exposed. He reaches down to pull one of her sheets over the foot. 

And Clarke shrieks, sitting up and pulling a knife out from under her pillow and he pulls his hand back, stepping back and raising them up until she can see that it’s him.

  
“Oh, thank God it’s you,” she pants, “I thought it was the doll.”

Bellamy turns back to the living room, “You think it worked itself free of that much duct tape?”

“It started talking tonight,” Clarke explained, dropping the knife onto her bedside table,

“Telling me how much it loved me and wanted to fuck me, did you know its arms could move?”

He shook his head and she sighed, “Yeah, they can do that, hence the duct tape and the rope I put around its ankles.”

  
Relief hits Bellamy like a wave, causing the air to leave his lungs as he sinks down onto the bed, running his hands through his hair.

  
“Fuck, I thought…” he breaks off, but Clarke knows him too well. She crosses her legs under her and brushes her hair back over her shoulders.

“You thought I’d had sex with the doll?!” she demands, looking almost disappointed in him,

“I would never do that to you!”

“Well, when you come home to find your sex doll naked, that’s kind of where your mind goes.”

  
Clarke scoffs but he can see her lips twitching in amusement, so he’s not surprised when she leans over and takes his hands, her thumbs caressing his skin in smooth circles,

  
“I know that you’re in a weird place right now, but I promise…” she pauses and stutters, obviously not having thought this through.

“If I ever want to see you naked that badly, I’ll just walk in on you while you’re showering.”

He chuckles, “Or you could just ask.”

  
Her thumbs stilled on his hands and he worried for a second that he’d gone too far and ruined everything between them. He’s already imagining crashing on Miller’s couch before she shifts slightly under the blanket and he risks looking into her eyes.

“Bellamy,” she murmurs, “May I please see you naked?”

* * *

  
  
Three days later, Bellamy wakes up at six am to find Raven and Zeke Shaw in the middle of his living room.

  
“I want that dining chair back.” he warns them as Shaw carries the chair with the duct taped doll from the house.

“I want to know what weird bondage shit you and Clarke got up to.” Raven comments, picking up Octavia’s blow torch.

“Nothing that involved the sex doll.” He boasts and Raven raises her eyebrows,

“Nice!” she drawls, “Well, I’d love to stick around but Shaw and I have to go to a government black site to dispose of this monstrosity, so…have fun I guess.”


End file.
